What If We Could?
by Chiiharu
Summary: Little do they know that 'what if' is subjective—that 'what if' can be turned into 'we can' at the drop of a dime. Cole/OC, non-romance, hurt/comfort.


**A/N:** Hi, inFAMOUS fandom. Now I know, I know. I haven't been here in what? Months? And instead of updating my chapter fic, I write a less-than-amazing oneshot? Yep, I know. You guys can shoot me now, it's all good and a snow-cone. So let's talk about this little number here. You know that story on the front page? You can't miss it. (=_=' Yo, we need to get this fandom bigger!) Yeah, "Into The Ocean".

This is a oneshot to that, you see. This oneshot has nothing to do with that story, but it's like a side-story. A 'what if', if you will. It's a nonplussed Cole/OC hurt/comfort, which means there's no freggin romance. But there is angst. Lots of angst. And depending on how you look at it, it might be one-sided, two-sided, ... Consensual, I dunno. I kinda left that up to the reader to decide. And you don't have to read any of "Into The Ocean" unless you want to learn more about Nerine. Because nothing happens. XD

So here you are, my second little addition to the fandom!

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**-: What If We Could? :-**

Nérine does not cry.

It is not something she thinks she is capable of. Even as Empire City hangs in the teeth of destruction and anarchy, she will never fall victim to dry eyes ever again. And yes, she knows she is caught in a tangled web of depression—one fueled by the lost of loved ones, people she doesn't even know or care about. Thousands of people in the city are dying, but she could rather care less. She insists she is not a nihilist, but it seems with every passing day... The hope that one day the city will get better dies. Empire City is bleak and tainted. It has, unfortunately, twisted her soul into something incomprehensible. The human mind cannot even begin to decipher what she has become. Oh, the feelings and emotions are still there, but the fact that she does not cry still stands.

The Reapers. The Last Sons. All of these creatures attack innocent people in the streets of the city. Nérine stops. She pauses. She looks at the sky above and asks her reticent "God" who the real monsters really are. For why are they being berated for trying to find the means to live? In this society, Nérine thinks that not only is it every man for himself—but survival of the fittest _simultaneously_. Both laws are now what drives the city together, and ultimately pulls it apart. These so called "monsters", the ones that attack people and send the streets into anarchy—are the same beings that only want to live. And with the strength they possess, are not afraid to use it.

The bloodcurdling screams that are sent racing across the sky—the streets being tainted in crimson—is she supposed to care about these things? People spend every night and day just walking around blindly—don't they know it's dangerous to be outside? The fact of the matter is that they have no homes to go to. Either that, or they are just _stupid. _Nérine chuckles to herself. The people are stupid, and that's what makes them die. Everyone who dies in the world dies because they are stupid. Some are stupid enough to get sick and die. Some are stupid enough to do something dangerous and die. And others? They are the stupidest people in the world. They would give up everything they have to their name. Just to die.

But she does not cry.

Nérine can almost understand why he is laying on the ground, in a frozen coma. Coldness can knock out anything just about, but why would he be laying on the ground—in the snow—when he's supposed to be saving her city—saving all the stupid idiots in her city that die? Dying makes you weak. Dying makes your family weak. Dying makes the people around you weak. Her sarcasm towards the city—her sarcasm towards God—her sarcasm towards people mended into an anger that ran deep into her soul. She is not about to lose him, but... There is not much she can do in a snow storm. Her scarf flutters behind her in the wind as her blue eyes lock on him. She glances at the people behind her—her eyes riveting with anger.

What are they standing around for?! Were they just going to sit there and watch him die? The man that swore to protect their city? Their lives? All by himself, at that? But who is she to talk? She barely even knows him. He barely even _wanted _to know her. All she knows is that he swore to protect the city. No ones steps up to the plate to help him. No one cares about him. All that matters is their lives. She hisses, gritting her teeth as she stands up, the bitter cold knawing at her ankles. Her black hair falls limply in her eyes, frozen from the cold.

The people look cross at her—they _think_ they know her. Only a little. But she isn't their hero. She is just someone who they think they've seen with him, and that's good enough for her. She never liked his company. She had decided he was a cold asshole way before she had met him, and didn't expect anything but conversation directed to their goal. That goal was finding out what and whom would attack the city next, how to take them out, and doing just that. So if he was to fail, who would take on after him? There are those feelings again, lodging themselves at the bottom of her spine. It all comes rushing back to her again. The depression. The pessimism. The city is doomed, and there is nothing she can do to stop it.

But she does not cry.

Happy thoughts.

Think happy thoughts. But where are her happy thoughts? Her face twists at the realization. There is nothing happy about the city being destroyed, and she is sure she's speaking for most of the city's population when she says the explosion took everything she had away from her.

Everything.

She drops to her knees, the snow sinking its teeth into her pale skin. Ice buns just like fire, and unless she can get him somewhere warm—No, she does not want to think about it. Yes, the explosion took everything away from her, but how many times is she going to blame the explosion on her newly found personal Apocalypse? It is she who accidentally claimed the lives of her parents. Unknowingly, of course! But still, her sin still stands. They were victims to a crime _she_ committed. The explosion was not to blame for the loss of her parents.

Her body starts to panic. She needs to think of something else. Her head spins. The last thing she wants to do is lose consciousness. To fall in the snow and have a million people staring at her—forever remembering her as the woman who died in the snow.

Simple thoughts.

She can do this. She breathes in and out, remembering the face of her daughter. Her daughter is the embodiment of everything Nérine is. Yvonne is Nérine's life. Yvonne makes her smile, even if she did adopt her. The love of a child... Their laughter, their anger, their embodiment—Just being a child, having to be guided by the outside world makes them wonderful factors that turn Nérine's smile into an unsure look. Her daughter isn't young, nor is she old enough to make her own decisions. Ultimately, that means that Yvonne can be swayed by the destruction of the city—turned into some kind of depressed Atheist... Just like her mother.

There it is.

The first drop of ultimate damnation sitting on the outer-lid of her left eye. All of her breathing stops and she brings both of her fists up, trying to wipe away the drops of her sins. "I just—I just—the cold is all," she says, bringing her arms back down to her sides. It is the first thing the people hear her say. The cold nips at the wet spots on her fists, making her twitch. Witnessing him on the ground goes so much deeper than what they perceive it to be—the people standing before her. She does not believe in their God—no—but she believes in_ a_ "god". A replacement for the one that abandoned her—the one who does not exist. _He _was her God now, and she promised herself that she would do anything in her power to make sure he protected the city, even if it was obvious that he did not need her help.

And what is more important is that he does not really care about her. If it weren't for the fact that she is a Conduit...

A desperate gasp for air escapes her body and she grabs her scarf. It is like the first breath a baby takes when it is first born. Now... Even after all of this she reverts back to infancy? Still, the question must be answered. Why does she cling to him—demanding to fulfill his goal with him—when he hates everything she is and everything she will become? Because that is what a 'God's' subjects do, correct? They follow their God even when he wants nothing to do with them. Is this his way of getting rid of her?

Things are starting to get blurry. The buildings are combining together. She can't see the lining of the sun anymore. How odd that the sun is out while a storm is raging on...

She is not one for human contact, as is he. She doesn't get along with normal people, so what makes her think she can get along with him? She doesn't think—_that's _the answer. Could it be that she just enjoys the pain of being with someone she knows she can't connect with on a proper level? He is light-years away from her—she could never hope to connect with him on an intellectual level. To call him her friend. She does not believe in friends. She does not make them. Friends are her enemies—enemies that are in disguise. She doesn't know if she respects him for having the guts to allow her to journey with him... She doesn't even know if he is just using her to get closer to the bad guy—the man who created her.

Heh, she doesn't even know half of what's going on around here, and at this she lets out a chuckle.

Her legs start to shake, completely taken over by the cold. She would have worn something else besides leg warmers, an oversized hoodie, and a frilly, kid-like skirt if she could afford it.

Ice creates lightning.

Clouds that fail to create ice fail to create lightning. So he should have been okay, right? She stands back up, looking at all the people in front of her. "You fiends..." she mutters in a dark tone. She doesn't know how to finish the rest of her sentence. She looks back at him, balling up her fists. "I can't—" She stops and looks at her hands. Ice also is a solid form of liquid. Which isn't good for him. If she brought him somewhere hot enough—unless he had a supply of lightning next to him—he would die from the ice melting.

But she doesn't have time for that. He's already bluer than she would like him to be.

He's dying from hypothermia, and she can't touch him...?

All because of what she is. What she never wanted to be. What she was changed into. Yes, that explosion took everything away from her. But the one thing that angers her is the fact that she can't help her friends anymore. Her enemies in disguise. Her God. Her ability to help her whole world was taken away as soon as the explosion went off. Touching him means _her_ death. Touching him means _his_ death. Opposites don't attract in this case—it only makes thing worse.

But what if she could?

She asks herself that as she knells over his blue, silent body. She blinks away tears that land on his frozen face—tears she blames on how cold it is. The cold is making her cry. Not him. Not the thought of losing her savior, her God.

What if they could... Just for a second. Just for a millisecond... What if they could touch each other, to feel what it would be like to live in each other's shoes? Could he handle her mystery and despair? Could she handle the weight on his shoulders? The promises he has to keep? The death of his beloved? They've talked to each other—often inducing who the other is by the sound of their voices. They _think_ they know each other enough to know that what they are doing isn't fun and games. People are going to die—yes, they know that now.

They both owe the city what they could not give it before—protection.

And that goes first-and-foremost to the people that they love and hold close.

"What if we could...?" Nérine mutters, grabbing the sleeve of his hoodie. She doesn't care if this will kill her. It can fry her alive for all she cares, but to feel the skin of her God is more than enough reason to be willing to die. Her chapped lips part, but no words are audible. She examines his hand, which is now the color of a blueberry. With hypothermia this bad, he must have been...

And that's when they begin to pour.

Every sin—every lie—ever beginning and every end.

Tears spastically hit his hoodie and she doesn't know how to make them stop. In all honesty, she doesn't know _how_ to stop. She heaves and tries to keep in her emotions, but this time it doesn't work. She hasn't cried this hard in years. Months. Ever, in fact. Maybe she's let a few tears fall—of course she had when her parents and the city left her—but now she was crying for a reason. She grabs his hand, feeling how rough it is.

And when nothing happens, she cries even harder.

There are no sparks.

Her eyes don't melt.

And she's still standing while he's on the ground.

"What the hell are you crying for? Get up, I don't have time to babysit your ass!"

"Hnn...?" Nérine blinks, her eyesight completely distorted. There is something on her face... A tar-like substance just eating away at her. She feels it and has seen the sticky substance before. Her ears perk up at that voice. The sound of her name. The one that she can't touch. "Cole?!" she says. Her voice cracks as she desperately pulls at the tar on her face. Even with a good portion of it gone, she can barely see him.

"You really know how to stand in place and get your butt handed to you," he hisses. There is a huge explosion—one that Nérine deduces as a simple lightning bolt coming from Cole's hand. "How many times do I have to tell you? No matter what happens you're supposed to keep moving! You're ten times worse than Zeke on my team, and I've never thought I'd want him back." The frankness. The curtness in his voice. It could only mean that he was alive and well.

Nérine does not cry.

She only _wishes_ that does.

With a quick shake of her hands she puts them in front of her face, water spraying from every pore inside of her palms. She can see clearly now. The sight of lightning leaving his hands sends her in denial. "You can't be—you have to be—" she utters, but Cole grunts at her as he runs up the side of a building, crashing down towards the earth and letting off a powerful lightning explosion. Blue lightning dances in the sky—kind of how she feels right now. She feels like dancing.

"Dead?" he says, shooting the last Reaper in the head. "You _idiot_, I heard you while you were freaking the hell out over there. Do I look _dead _to you?"

There it was again. The stinging passive-aggressiveness.

Honestly, she loved it, especially coming from him. She clicks her tongue, mocking him as she looks into the sky. "Do you_ look _dead? Perhaps you do, Cole McGrawth. You don't look too nice right now."

He simpers, walking forward. "We don't have time for this. Hurry up! You're falling behind again."

"Wait," she says, reaching out towards him. He turns around slowly, giving her a dangerous look, the same one that makes him Cole. Disregarding all of the voices inside of her head that tell her not to ask him a question—_the_ question—she puts her arms out, sighing. "Would it really kill us if we touched each other—"

"Yo! Cole my main man! I see you're getting busier and busier everyday!" The two both turn around to see Zeke, stepping out of his house and swinging his right arm over Cole's shoulder—much to his dismay. "Who's the new chick? Always hitting it in with the ladies! And did she ask you what I think she did? Haha! That's my boy!"

"Zeke..." Cole mutters, escaping his grip. "Get back in your house. Unless you want to be blown sky-high. Did you forget that we're still not on good terms, good _friend?" _Zeke gasps, patting his belly and letting out a strong laughter.

"Oh come on buddy, you're living in the old times! That was so long ago—I told you I was sorry. I thought helping you bust that bad guy would be... Y'know... Redemption."

"You got in my damn way."

"But I helped."

"_You fucking got Trish killed!" _

Silence.

Nérine looks at the two, speculating what just happened. Cole, after a moment of seething, walks past Zeke. Zeke looks at his friend, feeling sorry for himself. "I see... Well... If that's how you feel..." Of course it was how he felt. He had been wanting to get that out for a while. But even then he knew Zeke could never feel his pain. The pain of losing the one he loves. Cole stops, looking directly at Nérine.

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?" he asks, unadulterated. Nérine nods her head, putting an index finger on her chin.

"I would think it to be so, Cole," she answers, lost in thought. That was a good question. The blast didn't kill her. Losing her parents didn't kill her—she is stronger, right? This depression she has isn't just another fault. It's something that she's gained from surviving, something that is more of a scar. And he_ saved_ her.

Every fiber of her being jumps. The air is pulled from her lungs. H—how long had she been thinking? Cole grabs her hand and swings her to the side—out of the missile's way that explodes the building next to Zeke's roof-top sanctuary. Zeke jumps, scratching his head frantically.

"I—err, I'll let you handle this one Cole," he says, running to the door of him complex. "See you when you get done with this thing here?"

Cole swings Nérine to the left, lighting protruding from his free hand. He's armed and ready. He looks back at Nérine—who is at a loss of words—and grits his teeth. He heard Zeke, put purposely ignores him. "I told you. No matter what happens, you're supposed to keep moving!"

Keep moving.

His sentence replays over and over inside of her head.

Keep moving.

What if they could stand still in one place, not needing to protect the city?

_'What if we could...?' _she thinks, standing behind the scenes, attacking their attackees as he makes his way through the crowds of Reapers.

Little do they know that 'what if' is subjective—that 'what if' can be turned into 'we can' at the drop of a dime.

* * *

**A/N:** I _don't_ hate Zeke. XD

I think I came off as hating Zeke a bit... I respect him... Okay, so maybe I dislike him a little. Don't we all? But I'm not gonna bash him.


End file.
